Fatalities and Angels
by jxnko
Summary: I am a woman in a man’s world, where man’s word is law...I am but a small angel, chained against society’s expectations. AU 16th Century England.


I feel her cold, thin hands upon my skin behind the loosened laces of my beige corset. I breathed in deeply, letting the icy air flow into my lungs before the laces are tightened and all oxygen escapes from me. The laces are pulled, constricting my diaphragm and I let out a small grunt, the usual routine. Over and over again, I feel the loss of air until my breathing becomes minimal. The corset tensed against my torso, thinning my waist until a small amount of space is left between my sides. Standard fashion in Europe, I guess, though most women I know find it bothersome. A door opened, and I could hear the shuffling of my maidservants' feet as another pair of hands, strong, hasty ones, pulled tightly, making me wince.

"He's waiting for you." Mother's voice was always so domineering, "He's a very impatient man, I must say. Your father is having a hard time entertaining him." I close my eyes, dread filling my heart. I knew my mother was always ambitious, but a girl of my status and of my mind would not capture the heart of _this _man. She finally tied the lace of my corset, and I was all but happy with the amount of air I was breathing.

"Mother, must I go through with this?" I simply asked, turning to see her hard, wrinkled face. Her hair glistened gray as the sun pooled into my dressing room, and her attire simply screamed good first impression. Of course, she was always dressed to impress, and it was one of the only things I am able to admire about her. Her dark green eyes, the same ones I hold, look me over once, maybe twice. I can see the dissatisfaction in her face.

My breath was short, and I could feel the perspiration underneath my clothing already. I didn't want to meet my future husband; I didn't want a husband at all. I watched as my mothers visage turn cruel, as if she could read my thoughts. I sighed lightly and I shifted my eyes. To my mother, the price to become a woman with power was small and inexpensive. It was but a small token. The price of a man was a woman's soul.

"Your marriage with the Fifth Duke of Devonshire will be profitable to you and to your family, Georgiana. Do not ruin this for yourself or for us, and for heaven's sake do something about this unruly hair of yours. No man wants to marry a girl with a birds nest on her head." I sighed, and moved to my vanity. I scanned my unruly dirty blonde hair with my dark green eyes. I grabbed my ornate brush, and went through it a couple times until my mother put her hand on my shoulder. It was time. My life, as of now, is over.

My heart beat fast as I descended down the over-elaborate staircase down to the parlor. My mother took my arm, sensing my apprehension, but it didn't seem to ease my anxiety. No, I did not want to meet the Fifth Duke of Devonshire; I did not want to become a duchess, and I definitely did not want to sell my heart on the whim of power and fame.

I got to the end of the staircase, but I did not look up from the floor when my father and the Fifth Duke of Devonshire, William Cavendish, rose from their seats. My father, whose face was rosy from Brandy, announced me with great importance, but my mind was elsewhere. My thoughts were broken by the duke's low voice.

"What a lovely daughter you have." He spoke, taking my hand in his and bringing it to his lips - a show, of course, for my parents. If we were alone and wedded, I would not doubt the kinds of things he would expect from me or make me do. The thought of it sends shivers up my spine.

"Thank you." I simply say. I finally look into his dark brown eyes. They were bitter and menacing. I knew he did not want to be here as much as I did. After a pause, I reminded myself to reply with the usual sweet nothing, but nothing comes to mind. I stay silent. He is waiting for a compliment in return, but I am in no mind to give him one. He turns to my father.

"What a modest girl." He chuckles lightly, and as I glanced at my father I could tell the nervousness in his face. The duke continues, "I'm sure she would make a wonderful bride, indeed..." His flattery does not suit me, so his voice is automatically blocked out. I do not want to hear formal compliments in the hopes to win me, but no matter how hard I try to keep myself from becoming his, my attempts will only be futile in the end.

"Georgiana?" My mother's voice distracts me from my thoughts. I find myself rushing back into reality, inside the parlor with the Duke of Devonshire himself staring down at me. I looked towards my mother, her eyes looking at me like daggers. I quickly recover some sort of attentive posture.

"I am sorry, Sir William. I am sure she was only just admiring the walls. She spends far too much time in the gardens." My father said, a small nervous laugh emanated from his throat. He gave me a half smile, as if he was defending me from my thoughts no matter how ridiculous he sounded. He knew far too well I was a woman untamed, as all Spencer women are. We are powerful with enlightened ideas. My mother, a good example of such a powerful woman, knew far too well, and she has tried so hard to keeping me from being the spitting image of an independent woman.

"May I walk with you in your gardens then? Maybe that will allow me to hear her darling voice." He suggests. Before I can reject him, my father interjects.

"Of course!" He then turned to one of my maidservants who stood against the wall, her hands clasped and waiting for her next order.

"No, alone please. I would like to speak to her in private." Sir William suggests. My parents hesitate, but they agree. I could see my mothers burning eyes on me, but I stand tall as if I have nothing to be afraid of. I am not frightened by this man, I will not be frightened. I will not allow myself to be as such.

However, as we walk through the doors of my castle and the sunlight shone brightly upon my pale complexion, I felt exposed and vulnerable to this man. As we walked, with my maidservants following at a fair distance behind us, there was no word spoken, no word that was ready to break the silence between us, two strangers destined to be wedded. How could I possibly bed this man if he will not speak a word to me? Not that I cared, of course, because I would not be the easy catch he hoped for.

He stopped abruptly, and I finally let my eyes observe my surroundings – we were surrounded by roses.

He turned from me, his future wife, and spoke soft, gentle words that were inaudible to my fair ears. I walked towards his side, almost mechanically. He had picked a rose from it's stem, and held it out to me.

"Sir William, have you gone mad? The thorns-"

"The thorns are of no importance to me. Look at this rose, it is still a bud, but not yet a flower." He paused, and I looked up into his dark eyes for a second time today. He spoke without leaving my gaze, "Although we may be acquaintances, I hope that we too may be as beautiful as Cupid will allow it. You are young; you are still a beautiful bud. I can only hope to be the man who shall see to it that you are fully blossomed."

"It is not like I have much choice in the matter." I replied, matter-of-factly and slightly bitter, "I do as I am commanded."

This pompous fool could only laugh at my statement, no matter how automatic it sounded.

"Do you mock me?"

"No, but I know I fire burns within you. Be my wife and I will show you there is more to life than asphyxiating corsets and societal standards." He moved in closer, and I held my breath. I could feel the air escaping his mouth fall onto my cheeks, and I could feel warmth blush over them.

"I can make you into the woman you long to be." His face was inches away from mine, perhaps centimeters or closer. I stepped back and turned my head so that I would not be enchanted by his fixation on me. Anger and resentment boiled inside of me, bubbling under the fabric and the lace.

"You will never know what kind of woman I long to me."

I am a woman in a man's world, where man's word is law. I am a baby making machine, destined to bear the weight and curse of producing an heir. I am but a small angel, chained against society's expectations. The corsets and obsequiousness serve as a mask, covering the greed and power that lies just underneath the surface. I cannot drown myself in such menial things, not with a man of such suspicious power. Duke of Devonshire, watch out. I will not serve as your wife. I will serve as your equal.

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**A/N**: Thank you for reading:) I was asked to write a story about "fatalities and angels", but all I could think about was the "fatality" of a young English "angel" in the 16th century. I really do hope you enjoyed this and please review.


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